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Authors: Dean Vincent Carter

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BOOK: The Hand of the Devil
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‘And I’ll want the boat back by nine tomorrow morning – in one piece.’
I handed him the twenty-pound note, which he grabbed greedily. He turned and began walking back to his cabin, leaving me with the boat-shaped pile of driftwood. I would have mentioned to him that I hadn’t been in a motorboat before, but he’d made it clear that our business, for now, was concluded. Once inside his office, he slammed the door. If I was going to get to the island before the heavens opened, I would have to move fast.
Thankfully, managing the boat was easier than I’d expected, and pretty soon I was cruising along the surface of Lake Languor. I had gone some considerable distance from the shore when there came a loud crack from above. The clouds were relieving themselves of their burden, and were not content to do so quietly. As far as I could tell, the boat was going as fast as it could, which wasn’t fast enough. The cold rain pelted my face and hands, slowly numbing them. I looked to my left and saw in the distance what appeared to be my destination. I had been speeding towards the opposite end of the lake when I should have been going at an angle from the dock. I steered the boat to the left, correcting my course, and set the small land mass in my sights. There was another loud noise from the heavens and the shower became a deluge.
Before long, the rain was so heavy it was obscuring the view before me. The island was little more than a blurred shape. The surface of the lake was alive, water flying in all directions, and at times the boat lifted into the air before smacking down hard on the choppy surface. But right then soaking wet hair and clothes were the least of my worries. I didn’t like the idea of the motor cutting out, leaving me stranded on the cold, deep expanse. It seemed unfair that the thick, grey cloud should congregate above the lake and nowhere else. Nevertheless, I continued towards the island, the rain sheeting down and worsening, it seemed, by the second.
Pretty soon I was approaching the shore, so I cut the engine. Unfortunately, by the time I saw the sharp rock directly in the boat’s path, it was too late. I was travelling too fast, even without the engine, and there was no way of avoiding a collision. I took hold of my bag and jumped over the side of the vessel into the cold, dark water.
Luckily I hit nothing on my plunge into the lake, though there were rocks all around me. The water was far colder than I had expected, but thankfully it only came up to my waist. My bag had been submerged briefly, so I held it up to stop it from being saturated further. I could do nothing but watch as the boat exploded against the rock and shattered into numerous pieces. I hadn’t expected the damage to be quite so bad. It was a good indication of the condition of the boat. I swore out loud, cursing the harbour master for giving me such a wretched craft.
Holding up my bag, I waded onto the small beach and stood there dripping, swearing and gazing back out at the dark water. The pieces of wood that had once belonged to the boat were beginning to wash up on the sand. There wasn’t a great deal that could be done about the wreck, and I was overcome with panic at the thought of being stranded on the island. Still, Mather was sure to have his own boat, and would hopefully be sympathetic to my plight. I also remembered that my mobile phone was with me. It could well have been in contact with the water, but perhaps not for too long. I swung the bag over my shoulder, hoping that it could be dried out at the house, and walked up the slope, feeling tired, wet and sorry for myself. It was dark, it was raining and I seriously hoped the effort I’d made getting to the island wouldn’t be wasted. Before long I saw a small light twinkling through the trees on the hill behind the beach.
At that moment my mobile phone started to ring. It made an unusual garbled noise, and by the time I had fished it out of my bag it was silent, the screen blank. Either the battery was dead, or water had damaged the circuitry. Whatever the case, I was now cut off from civilization.
II: INITIATION
I trudged up the small incline where a rough path had been made between the trees and pushed my way through, water squelching in my shoes. I thought of all those pieces of boat washing against the rocks. I didn’t know what I was going to say to the harbour master when I got back to Tryst. Part of me wanted to avoid him altogether. It was a very dishonest thing to do, but I could be saving myself a lot of money. All he had was my name, so maybe he wouldn’t bother trying to trace me.
Emerging from the undergrowth, I found myself facing a house. It wasn’t quite what I had expected. I’m not sure why but I had imagined a quaint country cottage laden with ivy and roses. Instead what I found was a low, grey-brick bungalow that appeared to have been constructed in a hurry. The roof was lower at one end, and the door, although strong and rigid, seemed to have twisted slightly in its frame. Although its appearance was unique, there was simply no charm to the house, no character. I wondered why anyone would choose to live in such an uncomfortable-looking place and in such seclusion, when at any moment they could be severed from civilization by a change in the weather.
I stepped into the porch, grateful to be out of the downpour. The doorway was just big enough to accommodate one person. I thought of Mather’s letter and wondered, standing there on his doorstep, if I was about to meet another oddball, another eccentric loner who, after buckling under the stress of solitude, had reached out to someone – anyone – who might listen to him, even for a minute. I felt a moment of trepidation, but given how cold I was, I was willing to take a chance. Even if he turned out to be a raving lunatic, I would happily sit and listen to his gibbering, as long as I was warm and dry.
There was a strange trickling feeling near the ball of my right thumb and I saw that it must have caught a rock on my drop into the water. The skin was red, and was already turning purple in places. Blood was seeping out of a small cut. As I put the wound to my mouth I felt sure I heard a gasp, and a woman uttering the words:
He’s here!
I stood still for a few seconds to listen, but could make out nothing more. Deciding it must have been a radio or television, I knocked on the door and waited. All I could hear now was the sound of water dripping from the edge of the porch, before the door finally opened.
Mather wasn’t quite what I had expected either. From the tone of his letter I’d imagined a refined, educated man. Instead I was greeted by a short, plump fellow with receding hair, old clothes and glasses that were thick-framed and slightly bent. You could tell from looking at him that he had little contact with the outside world. Either that or there were no mirrors in the house. To me his overall appearance suggested a man of little intelligence; but his manner quickly dispelled that illusion.
‘Mr Reeves?’ A tentative smile accompanied his enquiry.
‘Yes. You must be Mr Mather,’ I replied, droplets of water still falling from my hair.
‘The very same!’ His expression brightened. ‘Please – do come in.’ He ushered me inside the house, closing the door quickly against the rain. ‘I feel so guilty about you coming here in such awful weather. Did you have much trouble getting across the lake?’
‘Well, yes. I, er . . . crashed the boat, I’m afraid. It’s wrecked.’
‘No! My word. Are you all right?’
‘Yes, I’m fine. Just a few bruises, but—’
‘Good grief, how terrible though.’ There was concern in his voice, as well as curiosity.
‘I think I hit the rocks just off shore.’
‘You’re lucky to be alive then. And the water must have been freezing.’
‘Yes, it was a bit. But I’m fine, really,’ I assured him. ‘I should have checked the weather forecast before I left.’
‘Ah yes. But even then one has to account for the unpredictability of nature.’
‘Mmm.’
I followed him into the living room, conscious that water was dripping from my trousers. A fire had been lit, and without hesitation I dropped my bag and stood before the fireplace, absorbing the much-needed warmth. I handed Mather my coat, which he took elsewhere. He came back a short time later with a small wooden chair, which he placed next to me.
‘Please sit and dry yourself. The bathroom is just down the hall if you need to use it. You might want to take a shower. I can dry your clothes for you in the meantime if you so wish.’
I appreciated his generosity but didn’t want to impose. ‘No, no, it’s OK, really. It’s just my trousers. I’m sure they’ll dry out soon enough. I didn’t bring a spare pair unfortunately.’
‘Oh I see, yes. I don’t think a pair of mine would be of any use. You’re nearly a foot taller than me,’ he said, holding his hands out in apology.
I smiled, a little nervously. However, I soon felt the heat surging through my clothes and body. ‘I think at this rate I’ll be dry in no time,’ I said.
‘Yes, I do hope so. Now then, how about some tea?’ He glanced at the window when a flash of lightning illuminated the clearing outside.
‘Anything hot would be great,’ I replied. ‘I’m anxious to hear about this mosquito of yours. It sounds fascinating.’ We could now hear the rain intensifying, accompanied by the occasional clap of thunder.
‘Ah, all in good time. I have some cake or could make you some sandwiches if you’re hungry. You’ll stay the night, of course? I couldn’t possibly send you back out in this storm.’
‘Oh, er, I wouldn’t want to impose. Besides, I’ve arranged to stay at the Rocklyn Bluewater. Though now I’ve lost my boat, I would appreciate it if you could help me get back to the mainland.’
‘Oh,’ he said, sounding rather disappointed. ‘Oh I see. Well, of course, if you must stay there, then . . . And I would be glad to take you back to the mainland – it’s just that the storm seems to be worsening and—’
‘No, it’s very kind of you, really, but I can put it on expenses, so I may as well, you know . . .’
‘Yes of course – although once the lake is in the grip of a storm as violent as this one is turning out to be, sailing can be a difficult business. As you’ll know from your unfortunate accident.’ The flames from the fire were dancing in the lenses of his spectacles. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
‘I’m fine, really.’ I smiled to try to reassure him. ‘I suppose . . . if it’s going to be dangerous to go back out . . . I mean, I wouldn’t want to put you to any—’
‘Excellent! It’s settled then. The spare room has already been arranged for this eventuality. Now then, are you sure I can’t make you a sandwich?’
‘Oh yes, that would be great, thank you.’
For a moment Mather seemed to detach himself from the conversation. Something cracked in the fire and woke him from his stupor.
‘Oh yes, of course, sandwiches. Ha!’ With that, he hurried out of the room again.
I cursed silently, annoyed by the predicament I now found myself in. A guest house was one thing; a stranger’s house, especially one as secluded as this, was quite another.
I had a good look around the room. Aside from the erratic light generated by the fire, the only illumination was from a small oil lamp on a sideboard to my right. But despite the near gloom I could see a large number of books piled high on several shelves around me. And what at first looked like paintings or prints on the walls turned out, on closer scrutiny, to be silhouettes. I peered closely at one that was mounted above the fireplace. The artist had talent: the outline of a large butterfly with elaborate wings and long antennae had been expertly cut from black paper. It was perfect, and I found it hard to imagine the creature’s actual shadow being any more impressive. I looked at a couple of other examples before Mather reappeared with a tray.
I returned to my chair and gulped down the tea, as Mather handed me a plate of cheese and tomato sandwiches. He sat down in an armchair, just behind me.
‘The silhouettes,’ I began. ‘Did you do them yourself?’ I turned to see his face brighten.
‘I did indeed,’ he replied, glancing up at the butterfly picture above the mantelpiece. ‘Do you like them?’
‘Mmm. They’re very good.’
‘It’s an honour I bestow on only the finest specimens nature has to offer. Rendering them in shadow, in black and white, takes away any pretence, any fancy. I love them for their shapes, you see, not their colours. It is the same principle with black and white photography. It exposes the truth, blanches out all the extravagance, revealing the true, naked image . . . the beauty.’ He sipped his tea. ‘An old friend of mine did the same thing with photographs of beautiful women. He insisted they were all ex-girlfriends.’ He laughed out loud. ‘If they were then they must have been after him for something other than his looks. Still, what would I know about women?’
I suddenly remembered the female voice I’d heard while outside in the porch. ‘Do you live alone here, Mr Mather?’
‘Yes. Why do you ask?’
‘Oh, it’s just that I thought I heard a woman’s voice when I was outside. Was it your television?’
‘Heavens, no! I’ve never owned one of those infernal devices.’
‘Oh . . . a radio?’
Mather merely shook his head.
‘I must have imagined it then.’
‘Don’t worry, Mr Reeves, we all hear voices from time to time. It’s nothing to be concerned about.’
BOOK: The Hand of the Devil
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